‘The glide begins, direction down …’

IN HOSPITAL 

The glide begins, direction down,
the happy girl has gone to hell. 
She lies in bed, her mouth an O,
her breath a whisper of dissent.

The wrist restraints are loosened now,
her midnight struggle done.
If they are needed yet again,
we’ll take that as a sign of life,
of last-gasp courage, not of hope.

Her broken bones may heal, but mind
that will not mend remains.
All the happiness that health sustains
shall not restore that happy girl.

jh

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